BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

      1,000-Year Voyage: A Science Fiction Novel

      Anjani the Mighty: A Lost Race Novel (Anjani #2)

      Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel

      The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel

      Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel

      Dynasty of the Small: Classic Science Fiction Stories

      The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror

      The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel

      From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery

      Fugitive of Time: A Classic Science Fiction Novel

      The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel

      The Gold of Akada: A Jungle Adventure Novel (Anjani #1)

      Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel

      Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale

      Last Conflict: Classic Science Fiction Stories

      Legacy from Sirius: A Classic Science Fiction Novel

      The Man from Hell: Classic Science Fiction Stories

      The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel

      One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)

      Pattern of Murder: A Classic Crime Novel

      Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel

      Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories

      Rule of the Brains: Classic Science Fiction Stories

      Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel

      The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery

      Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel

      Something from Mercury: Classic Science Fiction Stories

      The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel

      The Time Trap: A Science Fiction Novel

      Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller

      What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery

      Within That Room!: A Classic Crime Novel

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1951 by John Russell Fearn

      Copyright © 1998 by Philip Harbottle

      Originally published under the pen name, Earl Titan.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To Peter Ogden

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE WHITE GIANT

      1932

      The air was quivering with both the tropical heat of Central Africa and the reverberations of the drums. Drums, echoing through the primeval forest, their exact situation undetectable to the white man who sat flung in his rattan chair, his hand gripping the half-filled glass on the okume-wood table before him.

      “Blasted natives,” he whispered. “And out to get us, Ruth. They’ve been trying it ever since we struck this part of the jungle.”

      The young woman addressed did not answer. She was half afraid to. As the wife of Mark Hardnell, she was little better than a target for insults and abuse. She sat half-crouched on an upturned crate in a corner of the tent, her dark hair damply untidy on her forehead, her blue eyes darting about her in frightened wonder as the message of the distant drums continued.

      Suddenly Mark swung on her, twisting round in his chair. He was a big, powerful man in the early thirties. Even in normal circumstances he was not a pleasant man, overridden as he was by ambition—and just at present he was unbearable.

      “For God’s sake, Ruth, stop those kids bleating!” he yelled at her. “We don’t want to give away our position. And put out that damned lamp!”

      Ruth began moving, extinguished the oil lamp, and then in the almost total blackness she stooped over the roughly crib in which two infants wailed lustily. They quieted a little under their mother’s touch.

      “You would have twins!” Mark’s sour voice came out of the clinging, stifling murk. “It would have been bad enough to have one kid on a trip like this, but you had to have two! Damnit, you knew back in Zanzibar what was going to happen. Why couldn’t you have stayed there until the thing was over?”

      “My place is with you, Mark,” Ruth said quietly.

      “Don’t hand me that! You hate the living sight of me!”

      “I’m still your wife, Mark, and prepared to live up to it. If I hadn’t come out on this ghastly trip, you’d never have ceased to curse me when you got back to civilization. Whatever I do is wrong: I’ve grown accustomed to it!”

      “Oh, stop yelping!”

      “I’m entitled to,” Ruth continued, her voice low but quite steady. “We wouldn’t be here at all, lost in the jungle, but for your crazy idea of trying to find a lost city. Ivory, jewels, gold—!” Ruth laughed half hysterically. “That was what you said—”

      “I was right!” Mark blazed at her. “I’ve got the plan, and I trust the man who gave it to me. There is a city in this region somewhere. The hard part is finding your way, and these damned Bushongo boys are no help, either. Wonder what the devil M’Tani is doing all this time?”

      He blundered across the grey darkness to the tent flap and looked outside. There did not appear to be any sign of the carrier boys in the little clearing. There was only the deep tropical night and the eternal message of the drums. Mark swore, then regardless of giving away his position, he yelled harshly:

      “M’Tani! M’Tani!”

      Something the colour of polished coal tar glided out of the darkness. The only things visible about the head boy were the whites of his eyes and his gleaming teeth.

      “Where have you been?” Mark demanded, using the mongrel language M’Tani understood. “Where are the rest of the boys?”

      “Gone, bwana. Umango tribe close.”

      “Gone, eh?” Mark spat. “Ratted on us, you mean?”

      M’Tani did not understand. He was glancing fearfully around him. Only his loyalty to the white boss made him stay at all.

      “I told you to discover what chance we had of escape,” Mark reminded him. “Have you done that?”

      “Yes, bwana. No chance. Umango much nearer.”

      “No chance?” Mark’s eyes narrowed as he looked into the dark. “You mean this tribe is closing in, in a circle?”

      The Bushongo nodded urgently, and seemed to be making up his mind whether or not to run for it. Abruptly he reached a decision, swung around, and then fled across the clearing like a shadow.

      “Come back here, you scum!” Mark roared after him, then as the noise of drums suddenly stopped, he too became quiet, gazing fearfully around him. The silence seemed awe-inspiring after the reverberation that had been so ceaseless.

      Slowly Mark turned back into the tent. He collided with Ruth in the darkness.

      “Get the kids,” he said briefly. “We’re getting out.”

      “But—where to? Where do we go?” There was utter hopelessness in Ruth’s voice.

      “I don’t know. The Umango are all around us, closing in. We might escape. Be better out in the open fighting it out than hemmed in this clearing. You take the kids, and I’ll carry what I can.”

      Mark